


oh bittersweet

by inlovewithnight



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: F/F, Love Potion/Spell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 07:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Leslie knows that it’s wrong, but she can’t help herself.





	oh bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Body Talk porn battle challenge on Dreamwidth; prompt "witchcraft" and "wicked."

Leslie knows that it’s wrong, but she can’t help herself.

Her hands shake when she takes the book from its place hidden away under her bed. Her grandmother’s journal, the cover scarred from years of being carried around the farm, the handwriting faded but still legible. Every letter precise and neatly spaced; Grandmother had been a schoolteacher once, and she never let her handwriting slip.

Every page has a neat title at the top. Some are simple descriptions of plants and their properties, while others are… 

She still struggles to admit it, honestly. That her grandmother kept records of _spells_.

That she was a witch.

Leslie closes the book and stands, turning to the bedroom hall with fresh determination to put it away again. Or maybe she should throw it into the fire. Remove the temptation altogether. Yes, that would be best. She should burn it, and forget it ever existed.

She can’t do it. She sits again, opens it again, flips through the pages until she finds what she needs. A love spell, if the intended doesn’t already love you; a seduction spell, if they do.

She touches the page with the fingertips of one hand, her other hand rising to her mouth to muffle the sound she makes—not quite a sob, not quite a gasp. This is wrong, terribly so. But she can’t help it.

A muffled sound from down the hall, where Dick sleeps. Leslie freezes for a moment, until she’s sure that it was simply the noise the bed made when he shifted in his sleep. Surely no one could blame her for a moment of weakness, even wickedness, when this is the burden of her life. Surely even God could forgive her for wanting a moment of tenderness and love.

She looks down at the page again. She has almost everything Grandmother listed as necessary for the spell, lacking only a few of the little white flowers that grow scattered in with the beach grass. She can walk to the shore and pick those in the morning. Then make her brew when she got home, and walk to the House of Dreams for tea. 

Gilbert is away at a conference in Charlottetown, and Susan is visiting relatives down the shore for three days. Tea will just be Leslie and Anne.

Leslie reads the instructions again and again, until she’s memorized them. Then she returns to the book to its place under her bed, and goes out to the balcony to watch the moon rise.

**

Anne greets her like she always does, with a starry-eyed smile and a few sweet little words. She looks at the jar in Leslie’s hands with great curiosity, taking it from her and holding it up to the light. The liquid inside is a light golden color, with hints of red when the light hits it just right. Leslie smiles vaguely and says that it’s sun tea, an old family recipe.

“It has a few wild herbs in it.” Not even a lie. “I can’t get away to find them very often, but Captain Jim was kind enough to take Dick, so I was able to go hunting.”

Not a lie, either; perhaps it implied that she’d gone days ago, long enough for the liquid to brew in the sun, instead of just this morning. But Anne doesn’t ask, sweet innocent thing, and Leslie doesn’t volunteer. 

“Should we have regular tea as well, or just drink this?” Anne glances into her kitchen, where the kettle is already on, the teacups placed on their saucers. “How are you meant to take it?”

“Oh.” Leslie laughs a little. “We can have your tea, of course! We’ll drink this after, as a bit of a treat. Just leave it there on the counter.”

“Mysterious home brew.” Anne giggles. “Like the story I told you, about drinking Marilla’s raspberry cordial. I feel quite wicked, Leslie, doing this with Gilbert away!”

“Anne!” Heat rushes to Leslie’s face, and she reminds herself that of course Anne doesn’t _know_ , she’s just being a bit silly. “It’s not alcoholic at all, I promise.”

“Let me pretend, Leslie! Let’s pretend together. We can play at being scandalous women for an afternoon.”

Leslie’s stomach twists a bit, but she finds she can still smile. “If you insist.”

They drink Anne’s nice, homey tea, and eat the biscuits and preserves she produces from the pantry. It’s a very pleasant afternoon tea, of course; it always is, at Anne’s house. Every meal is, every silent, companionable hour. 

Leslie looks into the kitchen, where the jar of potion is sitting in a beam of sunlight that makes it look like it’s glowing. She shouldn’t have brought witchcraft into this gentle place. But she can’t stop things now.

“And now it’s time for your special treat!” Anne rises from her chair, shaking out her skirts and turning to the kitchen. “I’m so excited to try it!”

Leslie sits there, still smiling, the twist in her stomach blooming into hope and need.

**

Anne’s kisses are sweet and desperate, broken up by little helpless sounds of need. Leslie can’t stop kissing her—her mouth, her face, her pretty white throat. Anne’s hair is falling free from its pins, a fine red cloud around her face as Leslie guides her, step by step with pauses for kissing, back to the bedroom. 

Anne falls back on the bed and Leslie sprawls atop her, feeding her desire with touches, unbuttoning both of their dresses so they fall open to bare collarbones and then chests. She tugs and pushes at fabric until it’s out of the way and she can see Anne’s delicate pink nipples, then pulls away just long enough to free her own bosom and guide one breast to Anne’s mouth.

Little kisses and warm breath against the pale skin; Anne’s hopeful moans. Leslie can’t bear it. She can’t wait another moment. 

There’s so much _more_ to the skirts, and in the end she pulls hers up to her waist and whispers to Anne to do the same. Anne is clumsy with need, but obedient—so sweet, so good!—and from there it’s easier; drawers can be pulled down and tossed aside, and then Leslie can touch at last. The softest of skin, the most delicate and guarded from the world. The warm tangle of hair at the apex of Anne’s thighs, coppery and soft, over the secret cleft that Leslie opens with her fingers. 

She kisses Anne there, too, and Anne wails, arcing up off the bed. “Leslie, Leslie, please!”

Leslie uses her fingers and her tongue, coaxing Anne to the edge and over, turning her into a glorious mess of heat and sweat and sticky liquid on Leslie’s fingers. She wipes them on the sheets and crawls up to kiss Anne’s mouth again, hushing her babbling ecstasy. With her clean hand, she fits the heel of her thumb to her own cleft and rubs roughly, forcing herself over with fast strokes and pressure.

“Darling,” Anne sighs, slumping back against the pillows. “Oh, Leslie, my darling.”

“Shh.” Leslie kisses her chin and her jaw, then slowly sits up and begins to button up her dress again. She must be gone as soon as Anne falls asleep; she must let Anne sleep through the afternoon and the night, and wake up in the morning bewildered and embarrassed by what she’ll think were wild dreams.

“Leslie,” Anne goes on, more urgently. “I love you.”

Leslie’s fingers go still, and she looks over at her—her friend, her lover, her secret darling whom she has betrayed. Anne will forget Leslie’s wickedness after a few hours of sleep. Leslie can never forget, not ever. And as long as she has her grandmother’s book, she can’t even pretend that she’ll change.

“I know you do, dearest.” She reaches out to touch Anne’s cheek. Anne leans into the touch, rubs her face against Leslie’s fingers, purrs like a kitten. “That’s the only reason this works, my love.”


End file.
